


French Fries

by Tan_lines



Series: Sam-Centric Drabbles [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Demon Blood, Gen, If Supernatural (TV) Were on HBO, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester Tries, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Short One Shot, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:27:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28781961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tan_lines/pseuds/Tan_lines
Summary: When an 8 year old Sam refuses to eat, John is angry, and worried. Dean knows his brother is different, but he just wants his family to be safe. And does his brother's strange taste really matter?After all, they're just French fries.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & John Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Sam-Centric Drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110194
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67





	French Fries

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is something I had to fever write after reading that one tumblr post about HBO Supernatural. Enjoy :))

“Come on Sammy, you’ve got to eat!” John Winchester groaned as he tried again to push the grease stained wrapper towards the wet, red face of his youngest son. “If you want to grow up strong like your brother you need fuel!”

“No no no no!” Sam cried, his bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat and his eyes shut tightly as he tried to shove away his father’s hands. As he hit away the latest fry from in-between John’s fingers, his father gave an incoherent yell, knocking all of the food off of the small motel coffee table with his arm. As he stood fuming over the child, Dean, his eldest, walked out of the bathroom.

“Dad?” He asked. He had only just turned twelve, but already he was used to being his brother’s voice. Sam would cry and mumble until John gave up trying to understand him and switched to yelling orders, so Dean would have to step in and figure out what was wrong before his dad promised tougher training for them the next day.

Throwing his used toothbrush on the bed to pack later, he went over to his brother’s side. Sam was sniffling and wiping at the corners of his eyes with the heels of his palms, his sleeves already soaked with tears or snot.

“Hey there Sammy,” He said, trying to keep his voice low as their father towered above them, half hidden by shadow. He brought up the hem of his jacket to help clean Sam’s face the rest of the way off before grabbing his wrists and gently lowering them into his lap. “Sam, look at me.”

Blinking like his eyelids had been glued shut, Sam looked up at him. There were still silent tears leaving tracks down his puffed out cheeks, glistening stripes against splotches of red and white.

“Well?” Came John’s impatient grumble. Turning to look at his father, Dean could see his calloused fingers begin to tremble, a sure sign he wanted to be holding something, doing something with them. Usually drinking a beer, shooting a gun, or fixing an engine. Standing, waiting for anything other than a monster brought out the worst in him.

Dean wasn’t scared of his father. He never had been and he doubted he ever would be, not really. He had seen his father do many things, and he had taught him many things. His father was by his side when he first fired his gun at something alive and hit it. His father had lied, smiling through his teeth at teachers and police and CPS and concerned citizens. His father had taught him how to pronounce latin and pick pockets and sharpen knives. Dean’s dad was everything to him. His life, his protection, and his insurance. A part of him always felt safe when his father was around. But he knew his limits, and he knew if he didn’t get Sam to tell him what was wrong and soon, they would both suffer.

He turned back to Sam. “Ok Sam, tell me what’s wrong. Why aren’t you eating?”

Sam’s bottom lip quivered, spittle dripping onto his chin. “Buh, bah, they’re…”

Dean sighed, wiping the spit off with his sleeve and putting his other hand on the back of Sam’s neck. His skin was sticky and hot to the touch, almost feverish. “It’s alright.”

“B… bad Dean. They hurt my throat, I don’t want to eat them.”

“What do you mean? Come on buddy, they’re just fries.”

“No Dean! They hurt, they make my mouth burn and my tummy always feels funny after.”

He could hear the beginning taps of his father’s foot behind him and he knew he had to resolve the issue in a way that pleased all of his family.

“Ok Sam. Is there something else you can eat maybe?”

The young boy nodded, pointing a shaky finger at the bag that had been swept off the table. The small paper container sat defeated on the scrappy carpet, a few balled up burger wrappers spilling out.

Hidden deep in the bag, Dean could see something small and red. He reached down and pulled it out. They didn’t usually get kids meals, but this had been a special occasion. He remembered the woman at the counter, seeing Sam with his wide eyes and dimpled smile. His brother always had a talent for softening people, and the cashier was no different. She had seen his face and immediately offered to throw in an extra kids meal. His dad had reluctantly agreed, not wanting to act suspicious and attract attention. So that meant they had something they never had before.

He examined the bag of apple slices, the grinning face of the apple mascot leering out at him from the thin plastic. Glancing between the bag and Sam, he saw his brother’s rapt expression. 

“These?” He asked, incredulous. The tapping behind him grew louder. Louder and faster.

Sam nodded. Dean looked back at the package in his hand. He could feel his father’s gaze on his back as he tore open the corner with his teeth, handing it to Sam who stared up at him with grateful, if watery eyes.

“Thank you Dean.”

Dean just nodded, tight smile plastered to his face. Sometimes his father watching him felt like a blanket, something soft that he could fall back on, but now it was cold. Cold and searching and so completely detached from them. He wasn’t looking at his children, he was looking at a problem he had to solve.

Sam finished the apples before going to get ready for bed, Dean left behind at the table with his dad. 

There were many nights that the Winchester family spent together in silence. It was almost a routine at this point. Mostly it was because one or more of them were hurt, or John was angry at them for some reason. Now, however, Dean could see the gears churning in his father’s mind, John’s finger mindlessly folding the corner of the journal page in front of him, his eyes fixed on studying the pattern of wood grain in the table. A tug deep within him told Dean that something was wrong, a problem had come up for which his father had no easy solution. It was a face he had seen before, a face his father had when he was forced to do something he didn’t want to do. It was identical to his expression when, after a werewolf hunt gone wrong; he had to shoot the man they had been protecting for days, one John had promised they would save. He had been bitten. John shot him in the heart.

\-----

“Hey Jim, it’s me.”

Dean woke to the sound of his father on the phone. It was late, nearly morning, and both he and Sam had gone to bed hours ago. His breathing slowed as he tried to listen, John’s whispered conversation clearly not for his ears but too interesting for a twelve year old to ignore.

“I… have some questions.”

A pause.

“No, nothing like that, they’re both alright. The hunt went well, we got it. I’m asking about… well what we talked about. About Sam.”

Dean’s eyes flickered over to where his father was sitting. He was bent in on himself, the yellow gleam of streetlamps outside bouncing off his curved back and soaking into the edge of the covers. He cradled the phone in both hands, holding it like a tiny spark of flame against a blizzard’s wind. He looked like he was shaking.

“I said he’s fine Jim.”

A pause.

“You remember what I told you? About Mary, what I found out?”

A pause. Dean watched as he took a deep breath in, the slopes of his spine glaring against the thin fabric of his undershirt.

“Something happened. I think… I think I might’ve been right.”

The unintelligible mechanical mutter Dean had heard before on the other end of the line was silent. There was nothing but the yellow light, his father’s huddled form, and his own steady breaths.

“Goddammit Jim,” He said, and somehow his voice was even quieter, the gruff scrape of fear in it making his muscles tense. “It was just salt, I hadn’t thought of it… It seemed so unlikely, it was impossible, he couldn’t be…” His voice cracked and he broke off. To Dean, it almost sounded like a hiccup. 

A pause.

“What am I supposed to do?”

A pause.

He didn’t say anything else after that, just closed the phone as quietly as possible, holding it in his hands for a moment more, just staring at it. When he turned around to look at Dean, Dean shut his eyes, not too hard because John would’ve known he was faking. He heard his father sigh, heard the bed springs groan as his father stood. Then he felt a hand on his forehead. It was warm, but so rough he could make out every crease and scar. He focused on his breaths, steady, in and out, the breathing of someone who still had hours before they awoke. 

The hand was gone as quickly as it had come. Against his own wishes, Dean found himself drifting back to sleep, the pull of rhythm and darkness drowning his mind until he lost the fight against unconsciousness, the memory of his father on the phone and his whispered words faded like clouds in the starless night sky.

After all, they were just french fries.


End file.
